


Unexpected Overtones

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward First Times, Failing at keeping secrets, First Time, Happy Ending, I have to post this or I will edit it eternally, Inspired by Music, John Watson's Blog, M/M, No Mary, Post-Reichenbach, Sneaking Around, There are no secrets around Mycroft, Use Your Words, keeping secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-08-30 21:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8549953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: John finds that his blog is much more entertaining when it is interactive.  And when he discovers something surprising about Sherlock, he finds a way to bring it to light using the relative "anonymity" of the internet.Entertainment was one thing - but John discovers a new way to make his blog particularly useful.+++"Music has charms to soothe the savage breast."  John might want to keep this in mind in case he unwittingly unleashes something he wasn't quite ready for.





	1. He Knows

**Author's Note:**

> While I quite thoroughly enjoyed the clip of BC singing Pink Floyd's classic song Comfortably Numb, apparently the fangirl in me wanted a bit more WSSH. This fic started about six months ago, and since the video came to light (available on youtube, ICYMI), this has demanded completion. So now in my mind, Sherlock's musical talent is revealed, not quite in canon perhaps, but my expectations have now been satisfied.
> 
> While I have chosen a particular song, feel free to substitute anything that works for you.

**

It would eventually become a set-up almost too good to be true, when John stumbled on a mind-blowing, previously unknown bit about Sherlock.  John enjoyed his blog, and found it pleasant and satisfying to string words together, tell a story, build suspense, and even offer the occasional PSA at times.  But it actually became fun when it by accident began to turn more interactive.

The latest write-up of cases ended simply with a disclaimer, a hastily included end note, that John was headed to dinner, but not Angelo’s as was their usual practice, as it was briefly closed for remodeling, so the posting may not be as polished as his usual quality of work because he was both hungry and in a hurry.

Sherlock scoffed at that, of course, when he read it later.  "Your appetites, John, drive entirely too much of your life."  Had John been fancying a verbal sparring match, he would have fussed about his words and his delivery and his _bloody arrogant attitude_.

John chose to ignore him, turned back to his blog.  The simple, off-hand mention of a restaurant in the post generated, John was surprised, a staggering amount of comments and discussion among his readers.

One reader,

_Angelo’s is my favorite!_

Another,

_I love their pasta fagioli!_

Some else ended with,

_You should try —_

 

— and from there, there were rampant suggestions for local and out-of-the-way restaurants to visit in the meantime.  John answered a few of the early comments with simply, a reminder that he intentionally did not endorse goods or services (other than those of Consulting Detective of course) but thanks for the ideas.  A few of the later comments had links to menus or websites, and these John redacted.

Sherlock obviously had the feed automatically diverted to his mobile, and finally after snorting many times, he typed furiously, set his mobile aside.

John refreshed his screen, curious, and was not disappointed.  Sherlock, under his screen name, AConsultingDetective, as was his usual, although signed with his initials at the end, posted,

_Good Lord, you people have missed the entire purpose of this mundane blog.  The crime was solved.  _

_You’re welcome.  SH_

++

Blog traffic was taking off, and it wasn't too much longer when another opportunity arose for interactive discussion and commenters to participate.  Something at the latest case had been obvious to Sherlock, but no one else, and when even John took more than seven seconds to arrive at Sherlock's deduction, something snapped.  "You people," he sneered to the group overlooking the scene, "are so oblivious.  It's amazing any of you can see your way to dressing and feeding yourselves."  His tirade continued only a few sentences more, until he stormed off in an absolute rage.

Lestrade glanced at John, who only shrugged.  "Beats me. But I'm not willingly subjecting myself to more of _that_ tonight."  He could see the agreement and understanding on Greg's face.  "Got time for a pint and perhaps enough sympathy to let me crash on your couch?"

Although the topic didn't come round to Sherlock more than a few moments that night, John's mind was not far from whatever had troubled his flatmate.  He wondered what was bothering him, what truly may have triggered this latest frustration.  At the pub, over a game of darts, John watched one of the patrons painstakingly create a winged bird out of bar straws, complete with some amazing detail.  John, along with a few others, snapped a photo of the final product with the grinning creator.  Later, at Greg's, they put in a movie, but discussion ended up coming round to one of Greg's young daughters, and the recent discovery that her eyes were actually different colors - heterochromia iridium - with one being fairly bright blue and the other being deeper gray.  Greg had a photo of it on his phone, and it started John thinking.

++

The blog restaurant discussion was still on-going, and at times surprising, and John found he checked it between patients, after dinner, or to escape Sherlock's especially scathing under-his-breath mutterings.

John decided, after the write-up of the next case, to take something Sherlock had said and challenge his readers to be more discerning, and issued the following directive:

_So in response to this, if you choose, I would love to prove that readers of this blog are actually quite observant, and so I am requesting that you consider a visual perspective you’ve previously not paid attention to.  Capture it on digital image, and upload it here.  It can be anything, something unusual.  Briefly explain why you are sharing it.  I look forward to hearing from you!  ~  John_

He started it off with an account he'd set up long ago, when he wanted to post something without using his own name, recognisable email, or screen name, so that there would be some sort of discussion starter.  It was funny, he still realised, that at times Sherlock would complain about one of John's readers whose observations were simplistic and immature.  Including the one that was actually John himself.

The screen name John had chosen deliberately to have no links back to him or his history:   _LondonAtDusk99_

Under that name, he posted a photo of the complicated, bar-straw animal creation, cropped to exclude any faces or locations, and said that it had been spotted at a pub across town, and that he just thought it was clever.

He texted Lestrade the next day, asked him if he would be interested in sharing the photo of the close up of his daughter's eyes to show the different hues.  He was, and by the next night, there were several other submissions too - the detail of an early morning spider web with dewy highlights, the close up of a particular rock formation on a stone building that showed an unusual pattern of dots, and one of a triple heart drawn in the froth of someone's early morning coffee.  While the heart/coffee wasn't exactly what John had meant, it was certainly colourful and unique.

Sherlock hated the discussion thread.  Hated everything about it.  Called each and every person who posted anything shallow and infantile.

John eyed him up and said only, "Feel free to add something then.  Show London how it's done."

The following day, when John checked, Sherlock had uploaded a photo of a headstone from the cemetery down the road.  It was inscribed with a name that was mostly unreadable, but dates that indicated that the person had died before they were even born - and his caption was still scathingly insulting, but added a phrase something about how people simply don't pay attention anymore and that they haven't been for years.

A few others added a comment after that photo, but it all came to a crashing halt when an official from Highgate cemetery insisted that the photo must be removed due to privacy reasons and failure to obtain permission.  John complied, and within a few minutes, Sherlock had added the following:   _Apparently, society does not support observation.  Pity. Still, this was a good idea_.

++

John kept his feet quiet on the kerb, watched carefully from a few blocks back as Sherlock strode with determination along the side of the old stone building.  He didn’t pause, hesitate, or otherwise seem to consider anything other than entry, and his hand held the door open only long enough to disappear into it.  John counted to ten, and when no one else entered, and Sherlock didn’t reappear, John ducked inside to follow him.  For all the places he would have expected Sherlock to go, for he himself to tail someone into, he did not find it typical behaviour for him to be headed into a church.

They’d had loose dinner plans, until after work when John checked his mobile, found the message that his flatmate’d had something come up - some lame excuse about a rescheduled meeting which John didn't believe - and he would be late coming home.  There was of course, no apology or further explanation, and John couldn’t help but wonder if this would end in danger, injury, or another multi-day disappearance.  So on his way home after work, John stopped for coffee and a quick bite, and found it curious when he’d looked up to see Sherlock visible and unmistakable across the street, heading somewhere with purpose and intent.  His collar was up, head down, scarf wrapped over his chin to thwart the biting wind, and John binned the trash, and decided that, since his evening was newly freed up, that he would at least see where he was headed.  And of course, he would need to stay out of sight, unseen and undetected - not a small feat, and likely good practice.

The church was beautiful, with old, repointed stonework with carved cornices and latticework, copper flashing over the gutter edges.  It was composed of several tall building sections connected by hallways and lower, single story pieces.  The door was still unlocked, and John eased out a hand to keep both it’s opening and closing quiet.  His shoes made a bit of noise on the hardwood floor, so he kept to the carpet runner as he glanced up the few hallways.  Sherlock was already out of sight, probably long disappeared, so John listened carefully for movement or voices, stealthily moving through arched passages, and was rewarded finally by the sound of muted speech.  He arrived to a part of the rectory where the door was open into what seemed a high-ceilinged piece off the main hallway.

Quiet voices, a group of mates, were mostly indistinguishable, a blur of words for a few minutes.  A silent few seconds followed, a hush settled, the lull before something was happening, and John leaned closer to the door.  There was a single sounding tone, a digital note, echoing slightly within the room and resonating into the hallway where John stood quietly, even trying to keep his breathing absolutely silent.  He hoped oddly that his pulse rate was not going to be audible, thumping away as it was in his ears.  What on earth was Sherlock up to now?  Actually, he didn't even know for sure if Sherlock was even _in_ there.

The tone was joined by voices, singly, and then added to until, building from low to high, there was a fully crafted chord of four-part harmony.  The tone ended, replaced by the careful notes of a classical piece John didn’t recognise, other than that it was ethereal and light and _heavenly_.  The blend of the voices, four men he thought - although one, the tenor, could certainly have been female - started off with the occasional voice being singly recognisable as perhaps more individual, but over the course of a few measures and phrases of the piece, the blend was perfect, voices mixing and moving and intoning as one unit.  The harmony, even in the unfamiliar song, became exquisitely woven.

John’s breathing was shallow enough to feel almost non-existent as he was thrown back into very early memories of his childhood, back in Scotland, to times he’d all but forgotten.  His father had been a part of a barbershop quartet that would occasionally, infrequently, rehearse at their home.  He recalled the warm fuzzy feeling he’d have, a young lad, as he'd lain in bed those evenings, in those moments before falling asleep when the tight harmonies and overtones, the sliding lilt of dissonance that would resolve into a pure chord, that would carry him off to sleep.  The associations were comfortable and secure and pleasant.  By the time he was eight or nine, however, the rehearsals ended, his father’s descent into alcoholism and eventually to a slow death from fulminent hepatic failure had certainly ended any home gatherings.  His da, at the end, could barely _breathe_ , let alone have any wind for singing.  He could also vividly remember the funeral, that nauseous feeling when the chorus had sang Amazing Grace in front of the sanctuary.  Even now, in his mind he could picture his da in the group, singing, smiling,  _performing,_ and it was much nicer than remembering him ill, jaundiced, shrunken.

It had been _years_ since he’d remembered any of that.  The memory of falling asleep to full, rich music - safe, secure, warm, loved even - circled around him even so many years later, and he realised he was smiling.

The music ended, drawing him back to the present in the dim hallway.  He could hear a swig of a water bottle, a clearing of the throat - not Sherlock, and John still didn't know if he was inside the room - a rustling of paper, a few words discussion too muffled to be clear to him, and another tone, a different key this time, but similar beginnings as the chord built from melody to bass to baritone, punctuated and completed by the higher tenor.  A thought, an idea struck him, and John swallowed hard, whipped out his phone, assured it was muted, opened voice recordings, hit ‘record’ in time to catch the end of the tuning chord.

The first words of the song instantly brought another broad smile to John’s face.   _That certain night, the night we met..._

It was Nightengale Sang on Berkeley Square performed in a style that was classically professional, tightly wrapped together, a blended carriage of many voices as one.  John recognised the song arrangement similar to one recorded by Manhattan Transfer, but this work was completely unique, appropriate, a musical tribute.  Even from his out of the way listening point outside the door, he could tell that the acoustics in the room were perfectly suited for acapella music - the lift and blend and reverberation in the room that opened upward left notes resonating and easy to make minor adjustments in pitch or timbre.

The song ended, someone said something that broke them out into loud laughter, just briefly, and there was rustling and shifting of feet.  More brief discussion, obvious some planning direction, and a few seconds later, John listened as a song began, something old, choral, and classical sounding.  The pitch and depth of each voice seemed different this time, more resonant somehow, as John picked out a few Latin words.  It was hollow, short, and crisp where it needed to be, smoothly forming words that John didn't understand.  More, he didn't need to.  The message was one of worship, of hope, of the minor chords from the opening to the major resolution by the end, the repeated final chorus that cleanly changed keys and stacking to be just different enough for John's ear to notice.  A critically displeased voice almost immediately present before the ending notes had even faded, unrecognisable, "You were flat on the bridge" and Sherlock's indignant, "I most definitely was not."

He was not only, then, present in the room, but singing.  John let that sink in, the concept, the truth, that Sherlock Holmes was far more than consulting detective, friend, former addict, flatmate, and occasional all-around arrogant sod.  Sherlock Holmes could _sing_.

A voice interrupted, simply began to sing the beginning of a tune, joined quickly with harmony, a short piece from a turn of the century musical, ended cleanly.  There were more voices speaking, again at the end of the song, and John stopped the recording as some good natured fussing went on, escalated.  Apparently, for all the clarity of words that weren't clear enough to be understood, too muddy for John to pick out, he could very clearly make out a suggestion followed by the emphatic, distinct voice of Sherlock saying ‘no’ more than once, punctuated by protestations, an 'absolutely not!' that was also Sherlock, and something else charged that John couldn't hear at all, but was followed by the sharp pounding beat as something - hands perhaps, or some substitute percussion instrument - drove out a staccato rhythm.  There was more teasing laughter until finally, he could hear a very snippy and aggravated Sherlockian ‘oh for Gods sake, _fine_ ’ come to his ears.  He certainly recognised the frustration in Sherlock’s surprising surrender.

A charged moment, the pause before the starting gun, the breaths inhaling in synchrony preparing for something.  His finger touched record again, and John waited.

The song began without the typical tone to assure correct pitch, no opening chord, just a clear and hauntingly beautiful baritone.  Definitely Sherlock, John could tell now, by pitch and inflection.  The aggravation present in the first few words quickly changed, morphed into a quality performance, then rapidly into an emotional presentation by the end of the phrase.  It was enough to suck the very breath from John's chest.  It was captivating, poignant, and _gut-wrenching_ as the words struck him.

 

_How ‘m I gonna get myself back home?_

It was perfection.  It was pristine.  The song, despite the apparent fussing beforehand, was heartfelt, sentimental, a breathtaking rendition with Sherlock singing smoothly and the others in perfectly balanced harmony.  John managed to stifle his gasp at the line about 'a great pretender,' and worked on breathing lightly and silent as he recalled the recording still going on, his hand onto the mobile, settled his breathing again.  The song was acapella, of course, completely without musical accompaniment, but at one point, John could hear the rhythmic tapping of hands as percussion was added, he was fairly certain, against something to bring fullness and beat and drive to the piece.

The combination of words and style and most importantly the emotion expressed were almost too much, too intense, too close to home.  The message was about being unable to get home, and John wondered, and then didn't wonder, why he hadn't wanted to sing it.  The lines were possibly, John thought, too close for comfort - no wonder he'd protested.

 

_There's a light in the bedroom but it's dark..._

 

_The birds are mocking me, they curse my return..._

 

_How ‘m I gonna get myself back home?_

 

A pause in the lyrics was simply a moment for the percussion, for the voices to sing, to blend, simply with an 'a-aah' sound as the melody, harmony, slowed, decrescendoed, quieted, and let Sherlock's voice carry the melody through the few lines of the title.  Even the singers' breathing was in sync, and audible from John's vantage point.  The room, he felt, must have been not huge but had the depth of perhaps a hall or vaulted ceiling, such was the echo and the richness of the section without words.  John realised, as the volume began to build again, the rhythm growing louder too, that his eyes had closed.  He was trying to imagine what Sherlock looked like as he sang, and easily, John could picture the profile, eyes closed, all words and notes memorised, standing of course, heels together, shoulders tall.  The raw emotion, John fully believed, would be evident on his features.  He was struck, as well, by the song title and the line that kept repeating,   _How ‘m I gonna get myself back home?_ He wondered if Sherlock was recalling his time away and if he had wondered about getting 'back home.'

These singers, John realised, had mastered the blend, loved the art, and cared about the end product, about vocal excellence that approached near-perfection.  In his mind, he imagined that they'd been singing together a long time, they were that good.  It was as if someone had touched 'play' on a professional mastered track.

The song ended, and John stopped the mobile recording, realised there was the faintest bit of moisture at the corner edges of his eyes.  A deep breath seemed calming, settling, and he could feel his heart rate normalise.  This unexpected turn of events had rattled him as he could feel the physical and emotional response within him.

He could well remember how happy singing had made his father back in the day, how music was a great escape, how four voices could mix and blend, that sometimes, there was subtly the presence of a fifth tone, the "overtone, Johnny," his father had explained to him, something that the brain supplied to a well-carried chord.  "By mixing the resonance," John could still imagine his da's voice, "and by choosing the formant of the chord, the listener, the audience, should hear the overtone, when four notes become _five_."  John knew, later when he would play back that file on his mobile, that there would indeed be five tones on parts of that song.

John listened intently, quietly, for another few works in their entirety.  The group seemed well into their craft, into singing for the love of it, until they paused to consider the next piece, chatting casually about merits or concerns over a few of them.  He could hear Sherlock’s contributions, clearly he was not the leader, but had of course, strongly expressed opinions, occasionally caustic, occasionally personally insulting.  John couldn’t really hear the words enough to identify anything remarkable about any of the other unknown speakers.  Occasional laughter burst out, the pause as they listened or practiced a few vocal lines, tightening up problem areas and working on intonation.  They cued up a few digital recordings, played a few different snippets of arrangements, and at times John could hear distant footsteps in the room.  Being caught there in the hallway, he knew, was something to be avoided.  Not sure when one of them might decide to step out of the room, he waited until there was enough noise inside to cover his movement in the hallway, slid back down toward the exit.

Safe within the confines of his upstairs bedroom, away from Mrs. Hudson and alone in the flat, he opened his voice memos, listened to each of the song files he'd recorded.  The song that featured Sherlock left him staring for an unknown number of minutes, the power of the piece drawing his mind away, drying his throat, leaving his chest full of ... something.  Sentiment.  Compassion.  Respect, certainly.  He nodded off even as he tried to qualify it, fell asleep, his mobile slipping out of his fingers next to his pillow only to _clunk_ onto the floor sometime during the night.

Sherlock was asleep on the couch when John left for work the next morning, and life continued mostly as before.  Mostly - but not entirely.  If he stared just a bit longer than usual at Sherlock’s mouth, the shape of his throat, the larynx with obvious vocal skill that hadn’t ever been disclosed, well, John had always admired his neck anyway.  But now?  Now he wanted to hear the voice more often, to listen to the timbre of his speech, the range of tone, to hear him _bloody singing_.  Flipping his thumb idly across the buttons of his mobile, he considered listening to the recordings again, particularly the piece that showcased his flatmate, opted not to for the moment.  He could keep the secret until the time was right - and he wanted disclosure on his terms not Sherlock's, and there was no doubt Sherlock would figure out eventually that John not only knew, but found it extremely appealing.  But the wheels were turning in his head as he went to work, and even in between patients, and over lunch, he scrolled through notifications of the blog activity.  An idea began to form.

++

"John," and John snapped back to attention at the annoyance and irritation in Sherlock's voice.  The pitch was somehow threatening, and John even found _that_ captivating.

He'd better step lively, get his head back in the game.  "Yeah?"

"What do you think about -" and Sherlock breathed out disgustedly.  "Never mind.  Clearly, you are distracted and your idiocy is ruling your tiny, little brain, and ..." John spaced out again, hearing the tonal quality of Sherlock's speech, his polished diction.  He'd never even noticed the pitch changes in Sherlock's typical everyday conversational skills.  When had that happened?

"Yeah, well," John began, hearing the relative bland-ness of his own voice.  He'd never given it a thought before, and not that he disliked his voice, having perfected certain authoritarian skills in the RAMC, but the differences were striking.  His sentence fizzled, whatever he'd been about to say.

The telly remote struck John center chest.  "Here, this is likely all you're capable of tonight."  He wasn't even done with his criticism, adding, "Consider a child's educational programme, perhaps."

Flipping through channels, John barely paid attention to the news, talk shows, documentaries as he eventually listened to Sherlock stomp into the kitchen, the sound of glassware, rummaging in the refrigerator.  The tones of his muttering was even grabbing John's attention, despite the fact that it was likely grousing about John's inanity.  A commercial launched, and then caught John's ear with a spot on the new release of a movie next week.  The content was something John didn't hear, but the background music held his attention - tight harmony, an army of voices that had started in unison, launched into something huge and stadium-worthy.  By the time Sherlock had stepped out of the kitchen to see what John was up to, John had increased the volume dramatically without awareness of having done it.

"What are you doing?"

John's eyes snapped to Sherlock, expecting bloodshed or an explosion, then finding none, he glanced at the TV with wide eyes as the realisation hit him.

"You can't possibly be interested in that anime catastrophe of a film?"

"No, of course not."  John's eyes glanced at the screen to see if it was truly anime even as he wondered how Sherlock identified it.  He hadn't even paid attention to that, so curious he'd been about the music.

Sherlock's head, probably subconsciously, tilted slightly and he also, discreetly appeared to be listening to the music for a few seconds.  John wondered how often he'd missed these things he was now seeing.  "On your merry way, then, before the stupidity of the advert leeches itself onto you."  Some long fingers and disdainful gestures punctuated his demand.  The glass of water Sherlock was holding was raised to his mouth - that _mouth_ \- and John stared with awestruck reverence as he watched the mechanics of Sherlock's neck working as he swallowed.  Just in time, he managed to turn his head away before Sherlock looked over to lambaste him with another scathing remark about his airheaded behaviours.

John hit the off button instead, picked up the book he'd been reading, and was asleep there on the couch within minutes.

++

Other things happened that made John realise how little attention he'd paid to the connection Sherlock had with music.  There were expensive headphones next to his computer, that certainly John had seen him wear but never cared about.  He hummed along with certain theme show songs, and tended to speak less at times when they were out and certain music styles were playing in shops or eateries.  While he didn't care much for certain people talking, he paused to hear church bells tolling a song and even when a cab drove by with loud music blaring.  He found a pair of earbuds in the pocket of the Belstaff when he was searching, by request, for Sherlock's mobile.

When Sherlock cleared his throat at random times, John found himself wondering if his own presence kept Sherlock from breaking into song.  A few times, he went to bed early claiming fatigue and instead lay in bed with a book or his laptop listening intently to hear if anything was different, if music was playing, or if Sherlock could be heard singing.  He pondered the cliche of people singing in the shower and paused a few times to verify the sounds of only water in the bath.  John found himself staring at Sherlock's mouth, the shape his lips took when he spoke animatedly, at the musicality of his speech when he should have been paying attention instead to the words.

It was why, one evening, that he entirely missed Sherlock's reminding him they needed something from the store.  More than once John had been more focused on the words and the sounds and not the content and Sherlock had called him a blathering idiot, twice stormed out of the flat in response, and once referred to him as acting lovesick and wondering who John had set his sights on this time.

The slamming of the flat door and his choice of words made John wonder, a slight quease in his chest, if possibly he was right.  He'd never been so aware of another person.  And never ever had he wanted to taste those lips, that neck, swallow those glorious sounds, more than he did now.

Heaven help the both of them.  Because John knew things would eventually come to a head.

++

Another case had been solved, one involving voicemails that Sherlock had used to help identify something about the background noise being unique to a certain portion of London near the factory on the Thames.  He had then further isolated the location by using the audible static of the mobile tower.  There had been a last minute rescue, and when John wrote up the blog version, he pointed out that the detective's observations were definitely more than sight but of listening and of hearing and of a critical ear interpreting details.  The draft just needed a few final edits, and he hoped to have more discussions, observations, and perspectives from his readers.  The interaction of the blog was, strangely, something far more fun and exciting than ever before, and he knew his recent discoveries about his (rather talented) flatmate's vocal adeptness had already made him see - and hear - things differently.  And John had _plans._

This time, John knew, was a bit riskier, as well.  On a personal level, he was about to test the waters, to get something out there that, one way or another, would be rather revealing.

++

John created a new, private blog on a site that claimed carefully guarded security, with a brand new, never before-used email.  It was meant solely to be an extra layer of anonymity, for the time being.  He uploaded the audio file he'd recorded previously, of Sherlock, and saved it privately, and let it sit there a few days as a unpublished draft. 

His empty minutes seemed to find his mind on what he was hoping to accomplish, on moving things forward, so it wasn't surprising to him that conversations with patients may have led more often to music or hearing or sounds.  It wasn't surprising that his walks to and from the tube on his way home also had his mind working overtime, seeing creative ways to incorporate things onto the blog post that was just about ready.

After work one day, he'd almost passed by a small bookstore, in which a group of school students were demonstrating a variety of percussion instruments, and John went in, listening, his mind already a few steps ahead.  There were parents recording their kids, who were actually rather good and led by an innovative teacher, and John pulled out his mobile as well, considering his options, and chose an audio-only file.  He was pleased when the older percussion line ended up doing an echo-repeating exercise that was snappy, energetic, and fun to listen to, punctuated with sticks, laughter, stomping, and clapping.  The audio clip, when he listened later, was _good -_ exactly when he wanted.  He left the bookstore with a 60 second recording that was going to be perfect.

++

_... and so, that is how this case was solved - by listening, identifying background noise, and linking location with certain sounds.  Have you stopped lately to tune your ear to the sounds around you?  This is your chance._

_In keeping with some of our recent discussions, I thought perhaps it was relevant to ask for your submissions, for creative or unusual audios, musical, or performance curiosities that you may have stumbled on.  What does London - or whatever your city is - sound like?  What is unique to it, and can you record it?_

_Your submissions are welcome.  I look forward to **hearing** from you!  _

_I've asked a mate to start things off with a fun post which I'm sure you'll enjoy.  Can you identify a variety of sounds?  This is an audio-only file, but video is fine if you choose._

_A reminder, to please credit your sources if possible._

He signed in under LondonAtDusk99 and posted the audio file, then, from the bookstore's percussion demo, and clicked the link to make sure it worked.

A hand touched his shoulder, startling him.  "'I look forward to hearing from you'?"  There was a pathetic sneer about Sherlock's question.  "No one will respond to that."

"Guess we'll just see, won't we?"  John looked up as Sherlock was still standing behind him.  "What about you?  I'm sure you could come up with something interesting."

"As if."  The hand moved, then, and left a tingly spot on John's body.  "And I'm sure everyone knows that LondonAtDusk is your other screen name.  Lame."

John shrugged.  "Not losing sleep over that.  Just a conversation starter."  

Sherlock looked bored as he changed the topic, and asked, "Dinner?"

John stood, knowing if he stayed home it would be only to obsessively be checking his blog for hits or posts, comments or observations, and he forced himself to answer, "Absolutely.  You still owe me from when you canceled last time."

++

The following day, from work, John spent his lunch break investigating the latest posts.  A few videos and audio responses had been submitted - one of someone's dog's toenails on a slippery floor that was cutely unusual, a few of a community in London - a bell tower, the clanging of one of the drawbridges over the Thames that was interesting, and one of a teenager belching.

A comment had been added beneath that post simply, anonymously, _Is this what you had in mind, truly?_ , and it was unsigned but John could recognise the snippiness of his flatmate in it.

He cautioned himself that finding, recording, and uploading his suggestions was going to take time, so the scant posts should not be discouraging.  However, by the end of the day, there were several others - one video of some school children playing some game John had never heard of involving a clapping/dancing/snapping routine set to music, which was very clever.  The person who'd posted it noted that, in the background, between some of the verses said that a train whistle could be heard and the distant rumble of the traintracks.  John listened several times, and added a comment underneath, _Well Done!  And exactly the point of this, the layering of certain sounds. I think I can also hear very dimly, the sound of a motorbike right at about 50 seconds in?_  A few other observations ensued after that.

Later that night, he was pleased to find that several other examples had been submitted, and many other positive, encouraging comments about how intriguing it was to pay attention, to listen more acutely.

Sherlock's mouth actually kept quiet about that, until later that evening when someone posted a very short (thankfully) audio clip of a dog howling.  From over at his computer, he smacked at his forehead dramatically and groaned.  He said that if John wanted to waste everyone's time, there were other ways to accomplish it.

He'd been planning on waiting a few more days, but decided, based on that comment, that tomorrow he would set up the post automatically, to publish from the hopefully, _hopefully_  anonymous site, while he was at work.

++

As such, then, he was not surprised that afternoon when his receptionist handed him a phone message.  The posting time he set for the audio file had been three o'clock, and it was shortly after that when Sherlock had called, the first time.  John's mobile had two text messages and a missed call, as well.  The receptionist came back a half hour later, when John was finishing up one patient and preparing to see the next, to tell him that there was another phone call and that the caller was still on the line.

"Please take a message," he requested, and the woman looked uncertain.

"He said I was to let you know that if you don't talk to him, that it was an emergency."

_He knows._

"Please tell him that my office hours end at five, and I will return the call after that."

"The emergency, I'm supposed to tell you, involves something about arson and all of your possessions?"  She was unsure if she should be amused or concerned.

_He doesn't know.  He can't know._

"Five o'clock," John said again, kindly.  "Please tell him I will call back after five.  It's perfectly all right."   _I hope_ , his mind supplied.

She didn't look too sure, but nodded.

The circular in-head discussion continued in the background from time to time that afternoon, settling finally on, _He suspects.  At best, he suspects something._

John was not surprised to find, after his last patient, that Sherlock was already _in_ his office, seated at his desk, both hands and feet tapping impatiently, the blog open on John's computer. For the first few moments, John's eyes met Sherlock's, and something was alight in them...

_He doesn't know._

... something both alarmed and excited.  There was intensity in the gaze that held for a few silent seconds.  It was helpful, John realised, for him to be at work, where he had donned not only a white coat but a professional veneer, a face that typically gave away very little emotion, very little personal involvement.  It would help him maintain a cool facade and discreet presentation - one of his profs in med school had always said to be like a duck, calm above the water and paddling away furiously underneath.

_He knows.  But he can't possibly be sure._

"Did you see this?" Sherlock asked immediately, turning the screen so John could look.  John glanced at Sherlock first, seeing a wild-eyed barely hidden upset right under the surface.

"See what?"  John sighed, set the patient record down, and shook his head.  "I'm _working_ , Sherlock.  You know, to keep us in cab fare, groceries, and rent money?"  Sherlock was completely unresponsive to that comment.  "And perhaps replace all of my things if you did actually set fire to them."

He made a dismissive gesture.  "Pay attention, John.  Somehow, something is unexpected."  An eye narrowed as Sherlock scrutinized John standing there.  "More than meets the eye."

"I don't understand. With you?  Well, there's a nice switch.  You're usually complaining about everyone else not seeing something, not thinking."  John shrugged out of his white coat, hung it behind the door.  "Can this wait until I'm done, or is it truly that much of an emergency that you scared my receptionist earlier?"

John knew he was being baited when Sherlock promptly rose and invaded his personal space, standing eye to eye then looking down on him, so close that John could feel the negative airflow of Sherlock's inhale, the puff of exhale.  "I'm not sure, John.  What do you think?"  His words, also deliberate, spoken slowly and stretched out, melodic in both tone and pitch.  "You _know_ something."

Grateful for his shirt collar buttoned up over his pounding carotid arterial pulse, John kept a level eye.  "I know you're in my way.  I know I have about a half hour of work to finish here.  I know the longer we stand here," John edged a bit closer, feeling the heat emanating from both of their bodies they were that close, "playing games with each other, the longer it will take me to finish."  He let his eyes flick to Sherlock's lips, unable to keep his mind off them.  "Beyond that, I have no idea what you're talking about."  Sherlock watched John's eyes, smiled predatorily, somehow managed a boost in the teasing, the tension, the mood.

_Game on._

"You're lying.  You're a terrible liar."  There was amusement along with the accusation, a sparkle in his eye as he looked back at John.

John let the challenge he was feeling hopefully be evident in his face as he stood toe-to-toe with Sherlock before clearing his throat to hide the grin.  Despite Sherlock's fussing at him, there was a charged moment, the chemistry between them drawing them as surely as the attraction between covalent bonds, and John was fairly certain that his skin was hypersensitive and tingling with need.  The very sound of Sherlock's voice was triggering now, igniting desire simmering within him, and he smiled just a bit, knowing the matter would be settled soon.  "I may not be a great liar, but I'm good at other things."  Bravely, with more confidence than he was feeling inside, he slid a hand up to Sherlock's collar, tugging their bodies closer, to press their lips together.  The kiss was electric, terrifying, wonderful, and not nearly enough.  "For example," he said in a low voice as he brushed his hand down Sherlock's collar to rub against his chest before finding and teasing at the fastened buttons of his shirt, "I'm a good doctor.  There are a few people across three continents who can vouch that I'm _good_."  He let the inflection of the word speak for itself - _a good kisser, good in bed, good with my hands_.  "But more importantly, I'm exceptionally good at staying focused."  His fingers brushed lightly over Sherlock's belt buckle, a tease and a threat.  

"John, please," Sherlock whispered.

"Get out of my office, now.  I have work to do.  And then," he pulled their mouths together firmly for a few moments of tasting, of promise, "I'll be home and you can show me," he said, gesturing back to the computer, "whatever has you in a bit of a stir."  He forced his hand to fall away.  "I'll bring home dinner. And, we can most definitely continue this."  He was pleased to note that they were both breathing rather heavily, and added, "Conversation as well as ... other things, yeah?"

++

It seemed either a very long time or a very short one before they were seated across from each other, takeaway between them, there in the sitting room. 

Sherlock opened John's laptop, clicked a few buttons.  "Listen to this."

The audio file started to play.  Angling the computer, John scrolled up to where the comment came from, opened his mouth as if to speak, but Sherlock held up a hand, silencing him, until the audio file stopped playing at the song completion.  John hoped his face wasn't giving much away as he listened and Sherlock concentrated on John.  John spoke then, "Posted anonymously?  Hmm, nothing else?"

"No."

"What time was that?  What does it say?"

"Posted at just after three today.  It says ' _Heard this a little while back.  Performers unknown_ ,' and that's all."

John stared at a spot on the floor, listening, wondering how odd it must have been and continue to be for Sherlock to listen to himself in this format, under these circumstances.  "It's nice.  Interesting.  If you like that sort of thing."

 _"That sort of thing_ ," he echoed, trying probably to decide John's opinion on the matter.  The edge in his voice led John to believe that he was fairly certain he'd taken offence at John's word choices.

"Are there other uploads from today?"

"Nothing else worthy of mention.  A jack russell terrier jumping up and down on cement with the sound amplified and set to music.  A street performer, doing something poorly disguised as rap.  A uni marching band, just marching.  The footsteps are loud and completely uniform.  Crisp.  That one wasn't too bad by comparison."  He hadn't eaten much, but pushed his plate back, and continued to keep them focused.  He got down to business, tapped at the user ID of the post.  "Can you track down the identity of who posts on your blog?"

"No.  You can click on the screen name, and see the profile of the person, I think."

There was an undisguised dissatisfied face at John's simplistic answer.  "I tried that.  Obviously."

"So is this why you called today?  Why you came to the office?"  In an attempt to minimise the seriousness of their discussion, John carried their plates out to the kitchen, hoping for nonchalance and knowing Sherlock was watching and cataloguing his every move.  "I don't understand."

"It was ... unusual, this one.  And it sounded familiar perhaps," Sherlock licked his lips.

 _I'll just bet it did_ , John thought.

"... and I thought you could get more information."  Pointing at the screen, Sherlock then added, "At least comment and ask for it."

"What?  What am I missing?"  John took another sip of water, waiting for Sherlock to elaborate.  When he didn't, John shrugged and hoped he was convincing, tried to avoid eye contact and reduce the risk of an all-knowing, piercing stare.  Nodding, he said, "I like it.  It's ... I don't know, different.  A unique sound of London, I suppose."  Hoping to continue as casual, he looked over at Sherlock as he asked, "You like it?"

"Well enough."  Sherlock still looked wary, deep in thought.  In truth, he was staring at John while striding his mind palace as he linked the pieces together, his eyes sharply snapping back to stare at John until John fidgeted just a bit under the study.  John didn't realise his minor slip, that he'd identified the recording as something from _London_ , when the blog and the comment said nothing about London.  The eye contact between them was full of challenge, knowledge, and both of them hiding something while mentioning nothing.

"Play it again?" John said finally, and Sherlock managed another click and the singing began once more.  They listened as the song played again, and John felt compelled to speak.  "Not a great recording quality, and cheap laptop speakers, too, but a nice sound."  Sherlock was still staring at him, and the uncomfortable sensations grew.  "So, earlier in the office ..."

"A mistake.  Clearly."  The clipped, business-like voice was back.

"What, exactly, was a mistake?"

"All of it."

"All of it, yeah?" John repeated, letting his leg brush faintly against Sherlock's while both watched the not-subtle not-innocent touch.  "Can you be more specific?  I'm afraid I can't read your mind and ...  I don't know.  I rather enjoyed some of that."  Sherlock's face seemed devoid of any emotion, so John added, "Kissing you, I mean."

"I got carried away."

"No you didn't.  You never do."  His words, he hoped, conveyed acceptance not criticism, and he added, "I was hoping, maybe, you wanted something more."  Knowing that Sherlock did indeed want information as the 'something more,' John was not above using what he'd been given, to step through the figurative doorway that had opened.  Staring with those clear, bright blue eyes, Sherlock was stock still, and John would have wondered if he'd even heard what he'd said had Sherlock's hand not begun reaching out toward John's face, his mouth in particular.  He let his lips part as Sherlock's thumb ran across his sensitive skin there, and boldly, he darted his tongue out to touch, taste.  "I got the impression that you were interested."

"John, I," he began, and there was awkward distress there in his voice, "I find ..."  When their eyes met, it was a turning point, an agreement that there would be satisfaction, that they may be stumbling through the awkwardness of a first time, but that they were both very definitely interested and very definitely aroused.

Smiling, John had no words he wanted either to hear or to say, and he leaned in to assure Sherlock's silence.  The chemistry between them seemed to burst into flame, with hands and chests and strong muscles and a bit of gasping.  With John's hand pressed flat against Sherlock's chest as he arched into the touch, it became very apparent where they both wanted this to end.  There was a breathy, god yes, and John thought perhaps he had said it out loud except that his mouth was busy with investigating Sherlock's sensitive throat and neck.  When Sherlock reached for John's belt, to unhook it, John pulled back, "Can we, oh god, _please_ , not the couch.  Let's take this somewhere more comfortable?"

His shoulder was cramping in the angle he'd been holding it, and he stretched as Sherlock smiled, nodded, and said, "Floor or bed?  Table even.  Wall, perhaps, tomorrow?"  Sherlock's impatience carried well into his words.

"Bed, of course."  John couldn't help the chuckle.  "We'll see about what tomorrow brings, but the rest..."  Sherlock leaned in, mouth pressing hard, tongue seeking, teeth nipping lightly on a lip.  John found it more difficult than he expected to draw apart to move to the bedroom as he'd said.  Pulling away, he spoke, hoping to buy them a moment of decision.  "Not your first time, then," he asked quietly, then watched Sherlock's expression stay rather amused.

"What do you think, really, that I would deprive myself of knowledge, or opportunity?"  An eyebrow raised, very briefly, before he turned on his heel to stride down the hall, assuming (correctly) that John would follow close behind.

They paused, both nervous, both very keyed up, at the edge of the bed.  Pausing every so often to either snog or touch a newly exposed body part, shoes and clothing were finally removed, and Sherlock pulled back the duvet so they could both stretch out.  John ended up on his back, out of deference to his shoulder primarily, and Sherlock paused up on an elbow as he looked down.  "I've thought about this for a long time."

"You said you were married to your work," John reminded him as he brushed his hand over Sherlock's jaw.

"Once.  I said that _once_.  While you insisted at many opportunities that you were not gay."  Sherlock was shaking his head at the memory.  "That we were not a couple.  That of course we'll be needing two--"

John interrupted with a kiss, lips conveying the depth of his desire.  "Stop complaining.  Back in the moment, please.  And we've got a lot of time ahead of us, now."  John reached a hand down to stroke pectoral muscle, pebbled nipple, and then moved his legs so Sherlock could slot between them.  A few trial thrusts had them both very nearly moaning with anticipation and pleasure, until John reached down his hand to grasp at them both.  "You have something - lube?"

Rather than answer, he rutted firmly against John's hand, thigh, pressing him into the mattress even as Sherlock reached a long arm out to grab the requested bottle from the nightstand.  John's slicked hand, then, wrapped around him as he pumped, until he stiffened, cried out (and John took care to note the sweetest melody he'd ever heard, that of Sherlock's keening, and _oh-so-sweet_ musical sounds of pleasure), with John's release moments behind as he thrust upward against Sherlock's lean stomach.

They were still attempting to catch their breath when the incoming text tone of John's mobile sounded, then a minute later it actually rang from the depths of his trouser pocket from where he'd discarded the garment on the floor.  From out in the other room, Sherlock's mobile chimed, and he must have recognised the incoming text tone, leaned back with eyes closed.  "It'll ring next," he predicted, and very shortly it did.  "You should get cleaned up, John, we probably only have a minute..." and then the bloody doorbell rang.  "God, I knew it."  

They managed to pull on clothing, and John checked his mobile.  "Not Lestrade," he offered, as that was his first thought.  "Unknown caller," he said to Sherlock, but Sherlock was already shaking his head.  "Who is it?"

"It's Mycroft." was all he said as he, still with bare feet, left the bedroom in a huff.  It was indeed Sherlock's brother, waiting impatiently, arms akimbo and foot tapping slowly, in the hallway as Sherlock answered the door, with John followed, eventually standing only a few steps behind.

Mycroft took in the state of the room, focusing particularly on John's bedhead and Sherlock's naked toes, before speaking.  "Sherlock," Mycroft said with an obvious agenda and many things communicated silently in the tilt of his head and the slant of his mouth.  "I see congratulations are in order."  He glanced quickly between them.  "A happy announcement ..."

"Shut up Mycroft," they both said together, and Sherlock then continued, "Why are you here?"

"Because you didn't answer your mobile.  Neither of you."  Mycroft kept glancing at John, and cleared his throat a few times.  To Sherlock he breathed, "You've seen it?"

"Of course."

"It must be removed."  Mycroft spoke with more imperious words than usual.

"He has not yet been informed."  Not an uncommon thing when the three of them were together, John had been relegated to mostly invisible status, he realised, watching their ping-pong volleys of vague chatter.

"That makes no difference."

Sherlock’s gaze cut to John, then back to his brother, abruptly, quickly, displeased.  “He doesn’t _know_ , Mycroft.”  

John looked from one to the other, spoke then to Sherlock, as he hoped that perhaps he would be more likely to talk to him.  “Doesn’t know what, exactly.”  It seemed neither was going to be enlightening him, another annoying Holmes stand-off.  John thought about varying options to get information - from physical threats to grabbing the Belstaff as a spur to motivating Sherlock to snatching away Mycroft's pocket watch (the umbrella, _curious_ , was not accompanying the man today).  He opted for more mature behaviour, the clever art of conversation.  "So tell me," John interjected, "what _exactly must be removed?_ " he asked, emphasising the words Mycroft had used earlier.  "Is this," he began, wishing he was less disheveled and that he was holding tea.  Or better, something alcoholic.  Mycroft truly was his arrogant self, his snorting and his bearing and his very presence.  "Are you talking about my 'ridiculous'" he threw that word in Sherlock's direction, given that it had been labeled such recently and he punctuated this with air quotes, "blog?"

Mycroft stared then at Sherlock and ignored John.  "I should inform you that the post has been traced to an unknown email address and anonymous user.  However, the static IP address of the webhosting server has confirmed that the laptop it originated from belongs to, surprisingly," and Mycroft paused there a moment, turned the emotionless gaze on John, "one Dr. John Watson."

"He has no idea, Mycroft."

"Wait," John said again, ignoring Sherlock's comment for the time being.  "How do you know that?"

"John, please, after all this time, you still fail to see?  I am, as you know, quite well connected."

"Of course you are, but, really," John spluttered then a bit, "why on earth do _you_ care about a random audio file posted online?"  John looked from one to the other, decided he'd hedged long enough.  "I mean, I can understand why Sherlock was rattled to hear himself in that file, but..."  John cast a glance over to find Sherlock was watching him carefully, even-keeled, simply waiting for more explanation.   _He knew,_ John could see, _of course he bloody knew_.  "Yes, I saw you.  Followed you.  Listened.  And it was amazing.  Wonderful.  I recorded it, obviously.  And it's..." John searched for more appropriate adjectives, found none, and settled with, "fantastic.  And it should be _shared_."

The brothers stared at John for a long minute, then at each other as their eyes apparently did most of the talking, until, finally, Sherlock laughed, hollowly at first.  Mycroft looked less amused.  Perhaps resigned.

But then he turned to face John head on, taking on a look of annoyance.  "The recording quality was quite abysmal, if you must know."

Sherlock cleared his throat, taking on airs again as he prepared to explain.  "John, he does have a point, if you're going to record, it should be undertaken with better equipment under better acoustics.  More importantly, however, clearly, you have no idea what you've done and who you're dealing with," Sherlock finally said, barely holding his mirth inside.  "It gives me great pleasure, and when I say _great pleasure_ ," he said as Mycroft's cheeks coloured, and his speech slowed down, pausing for dramatic effect with great anticipation, "I really do mean quite a bit of it," and his arm drifted toward Mycroft even as his finger began to point at his brother, "to introduce you to the _tenor_ of the group."

John stared.

"Yes, apparently the British government would prefer to keep his vocal ability _off_ the internet."

++

 


	2. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three snippets of separate epilogues that have resisted being woven together. The first may blur the lines of the M/E rating.

++

Three Epilogue Snippets

Sherlock's hand

"Be still," Sherlock's voice was quiet in John's ear as his hand held down his shoulder, firm and insistent.  The other hand twined into his hair, holding his head back and chin up, leaning the back of his head against Sherlock's chest as they lay on their sides with Sherlock behind.  The room was bathed in moonlight from the window and the flicker of a candle that twinkled from the dresser.  The sheets were softly rumpled, caught under them and a little sweaty.  Speakers from the shelf opposite the bed were offering background fill, a playlist of Sherlock's creation chosen specifically for the bedroom, all of it soft, andante, nothing distracting.  "Breathe," came the next melodic incantation against John's ear.  His body was tight, resisting intrusion despite Sherlock's careful preparation.  Gently Sherlock eased forward, and John could feel the muscle spasm and then, finally, blessedly, begin to relax.  "Good."

"Give me a tic, here," John pleaded, thinly.  "Need..."

"I know," Sherlock interrupted, sliding the hand that had previously gripped his shoulder down across the planes of his belly to the crux of his legs to wrap almost timidly, gently, around John's throbbing length.  "This will help."

The music swelled, rose, a bass drum duet with soft flutes filling the room, but quietly, not demanding to be the center of attention.  Background fill, soothing, calming.  "God," John breathed again, tilting his pelvis experimentally against Sherlock.  "That's better."

"I know," Sherlock said, "now be still."  The hand moved back to John's shoulder, tight, nearly pinching, demanding obedience.  John could feel Sherlock's minor adjustments of his body position, and he slid carefully as if each small change were mission critical.  On some level, John knew he was trying to find the best angle to stimulate John's prostate, but this being John's first time ever in this particular position, he thought it of only minor significance until sparkles erupted low in his groin.  The _wha-_ sound apparently came from John's throat, and Sherlock moaned a low note of affirmation and success, did it again.  The sparkles erupted into tingles that burst into fireworks, a tense coil of pleasure on the verge of orgasm, already.  John couldn't stop the sudden thrusting of his own hips as he sought it again - _too much, not enough_ \- even as he needed to avoid over-stimulation, and his hand with a mind of its own began to reach for his own erection.  "No, be still."  John's hand closed, unwilling and almost unable to comply.  Sherlock cleared his throat, dug his fingers a bit more strongly into the muscles over John's shoulder.

"I... stop, I can't, I have to..." he gasped, keeping his hand where it was as his shoulder canted lower, desperately trying to avoid the pinch of the muscle group and get out from under Sherlock's hold.

A flash of Sherlock's long arm and John's hand was caught, removed, held.  Briefly, John struggled just a little at the restraint, knew he could break away with ease if he so desired, and exhaled in mostly-willing surrender, trusting, let his hand stay where Sherlock was holding it.  Sensations began again, slower but building.  The tightness and stretch left them both breathing heavily, and Sherlock based the depth and direction of his thrusts by John's responses, reactions, and tremors.  "Let go, you can, come on," he urged, and John could minutely feel Sherlock's girth thicken and harden.  To a whisper, his voice dropped, breathy in John's ear.  "Untouched.  You can do this."

"You've gotta... you'll havta..."  John twisted his wrist that was still bracketed in Sherlock's hand, just to prove he could break away if he needed to, a small degree of control.

Sherlock chuckled, a sweet baritone hum following that, and he nipped a bit at John's ear.  "I know when to back off.  Trust me," he said, and then angled deeper with absolute focus and intent.  John keened, stiffened, his orgasm exploding and wringing out of him in waves, and Sherlock did then, mercifully, wrap his hand around John's already pulsating erection even as he eased off, toned down, slightly withdrew from his position.  His movements all but stilled as his own breath caught, his own orgasm almost upon him, close, close, _closer_ , and he gasped at the intensity.  He could feel his own girth swell further, his breath catching, and a couple of shallow but potent thrusts later, he followed John into blissful release.

 _"Ohmygod,_ " John said, his hand reaching down finally to hold Sherlock's thigh, stilling him, keeping him in place while preventing more stimulation.  "I know it's not possible to actually die from this, but..." his sentence paused there as he blew out a breath.  

"La petite mort," Sherlock whispered helpfully, and John could feel the smile against the back of his neck.

"Not dead, then, but that wouldn't be a terrible way to go."

"Not to worry, should it happen, Mycroft and I will sing at your funeral."

"Sherlock," John warned, ready to fuss about discussing Sherlock's brother so close on the heels of such wonderful, physical pleasure.

"No worries.  We'll pick something somber and in a minor key."  He rubbed a calming hand along John's side, soothing.  "Too bad, though, you're not Irish.  Mycroft could really belt out a very sorrowful rendition of 'Oh Danny Boy'."

"Oh god," John whispered, "shut up now.  Immediately.  Or I will have him sing that very piece at _your funeral_ , Irish or not."  Sherlock chuckled harder then as John growled, " _Soon_."  Joining in on the giggling as Sherlock's arm tightened, John's shoulders relaxed, leaning back against Sherlock's front, both of them satisfied and heavy-limbed.

++

Mycroft's hand

They'd discussed dinner at the end of the day, and John was hungry.  The text from Sherlock was that he was running late, and John wasted a few minutes on the internet, his blog, and random news sites while he waited.  It wasn't long before there were footsteps on the stairs.  John looked up in time to see Mycroft enter the flat, and as he moved to stand, Mycroft's hand on his shoulder pressed him back down into the chair.  

He hadn't seen Mycroft since that day, but had been informed that his blog had undergone a few background manouevers, but had not been taken down as threatened.

While the touch wasn't painful, neither was it light.  It reminded John, unbidden, of the same firm touch Sherlock had used several nights previously in bed.  Mycroft's hand felt quite a bit different, but it resonated just with the association.

Since that night, Sherlock had continued to touch him, too, at every opportunity it seemed.  The touch was familiar - John could swear every time Sherlock walked past him and touched him that way in that very same spot on his shoulder, he could remember exactly the sensations that went along with it, precisely the hitch of his breath, the shared intimate moment.

John wondered to himself how his shoulder had turned into an erogenous zone when Sherlock touched him.

But now, out in the sitting room, he wrenched his body away, sat there watching Sherlock's brother and hoping his cheeks weren't burning.  Neither spoke for a few moments, John out of aggravation and Mycroft out of his typical, or so John supposed, dramatic bent.

Stubbornly silent, John watched as Mycroft removed his own laptop from the depths of his bag, perched on the edge of the chair across from John.  The door off the street opened, Mycroft tilted his head as he heard it, turned back to the computer.  A few clicks later, and there was a video file opened.  He readied the play button, waited, and John could only shake his head in exasperation as Sherlock's feet pounded up the stairs two-at-a-time, only to stand then as if frozen inside the doorway when he saw Mycroft.

"Sherlock," Mycroft finally said in greeting.

"Don't."  Sherlock's tone was low, predatory, threatening.

"You have no idea --"

"Of course I do.  I know exactly what that is."

"Just stop it," John said, and when he shifted as if to get up, Mycroft's hand moved to John's shoulder again.

"Stop _that_ immediately," Sherlock growled with acutely raised eyebrow, as John shrugged out from under the palm, successfully and emphatically.

"John," Mycroft began, sitting down uninvited, deepening the scowl on Sherlock's face.  

"Don't get too comfortable," Sherlock said to him.

"None of you get comfortable," John said then, tired of their antics and deciding that the games would continue too long if they were left to their own devices.  "Spill it, now, and be done with this."  The command was issued in the ordering voice of Captain Watson, and did actually spur Mycroft to action.

"Oh, I have no intention of staying longer than a few minutes."  Mycroft looked at them both, smirking.  "I know Dr. Watson's birthday is coming up, and I wanted to deliver a gift.  To both of you, actually."

"Not interested," Sherlock said, his hand ready to close the lid of the computer.

"John definitely already is.  And you will simply be irritated.  More than usual."  He clicked again, then, and there was static and an old video finished buffering then began to play.  The black and white footage was grainy, and was of three young boys on stage.  He struck a key a few times, turning up the volume.  The trio was singing.

John snatched up the laptop, staring wide-eyed as he pulled it closer, balanced it on his knee even as he patted the open seat next to him on the couch, beckoning for Sherlock who, surprisingly, obeyed.  He touched the mouse, and once the video paused, he turned calmly to Sherlock.  "You and Mycroft, I presume, here and here?" he pointed at the screen.

"Yes," Sherlock answered.  "And our other brother, the eldest one, Sherrinford."

Mycroft sighed, watched John vacillate between the desire to listen to the file and to ask for more information.  "Our parents insisted we perform at the local Arts Festival from time to time.  Sherrinford is a recluse, manages the family estate.  You are unlikely to ever meet."  John's finger was still hovering, although Mycroft watched the hand nearer Sherlock reach out to settle over Sherlock's thigh, part possession, part comfort.  "You might find it curious that this video was before Sherlock's voice settled lower.  His tenor then was stronger and higher than mine is now."  With a truly distressed expression, Mycroft looked over toward the window, reminiscing, and muttered, "Pity his voice had to go and change."  

Disagreeing silently, John again clicked play.

++

A stranger's hand

The security detail wore earpieces, black shirts, and were instantly recognisable as such - body habitus, muscled, tall, a serious don't-mess-with-me expression on each face.

One of them eyed Sherlock from head to toe, taking in nothing out of the ordinary beyond the backstage access pass.  Sherlock hoped he wasn't looking as excited on the outside as he was within.  His favourite vocal musicians, a small venue, awesome seats, a beyond over-the-top past few hours of music - classics, current, newly polished - and now, thanks to John's efforts, a private, backstage visit with some of the world's best and most talented musicians.

John'd handed over an envelope last week, for no special occasion, and Sherlock had initially merely shrugged at the tickets that he scissored in his hand to see date, time, and venue.  Then he'd spotted the backstage permit, and the gift took on a whole new meaning.

Sherlock had been stunned into fragmented sentences.  "I've loved them...  Have you heard their ...  I can't believe you...   _How on earth did you_..." and he regained his thought processes, stopped, and higher functioning engaged.  "I simply must ask about the chord progressions in the bridge of the last song on their latest compilation.  I must."

John did not try to add anything at the time, simply let the excitement and the animation and the energy build even as he drank in the chemistry of Sherlock's thrill.  When Sherlock had finally paused to catch his breath, John smiled, said cheekily, "I take it that means you're pleased, then?"

"How on earth," he began, then found it necessary to take a deep breath before completing the sentence, "did you manage this impossible feat?"

Letting a finger idly slide down Sherlock's throat as they sat on the couch, John grinned again, a little bit on the shy side as he confessed, "I had to ask for help with the passes backstage afterward.  Impossible unless you enlist connections.  You might want to be nice to your brother a time or two, as a thank you."  When Sherlock's eyes began to roll and his lips turned downward, John quickly amended, "Or not."

So later when they stood there by security, at the theatre doors, accompanied by a stage hand and on their way backstage, Sherlock turned to John.  "I still want you to know that you don't have to stay, you know, if you don't want to.  This might not be your thing."

The smile went all the way to John's eyes as he realised what Sherlock may have been worrying about.  "I'm not planning on saying or asking anything that would embarrass you," John assured him.  "Nor taking away any time you get with this - I wouldn't intrude on your passion like that."

Sherlock smirked in response, whispered, "Promise?  Because yes, I'm thoroughly looking forward to this."

"I'm staying, though," and he slipped a hand into Sherlock's, briefly, squeezed.  "Because my passion is watching you enjoy yours."  Knowing that he'd helped put the smile on Sherlock's face, the sparkle in his eye, was _oh-so-satisfying_ for John.  The appreciation and gratitude in Sherlock's eyes as he caught in John's gaze, then, spoke veritable volumes of kindness.  "Perhaps when we get home, more passion, of a different kind?"

But first, John was looking forward to watching Sherlock experience another surprise, even beyond a simple meet-and-greet.

Turned out Mycroft had been more than helpful in merely obtaining the passes.  His text to John earlier in the day had simply been,  **Apparently the leader of the group immensely enjoyed your blog audio file. Seems more than likely Sherlock will get the chance to sing with the group as well, backstage. Should you choose to record anything discreetly, it will be expressly for your own, private listening only.**

Moments later, another ellipsis twinkled, and then  **Although I would be most interested in hearing it as well.**

John, then, was not the least surprised at the surgery one day when a courier delivered a pocket-sized, high tech digital voice recorder to him.  It was tagged 'MRI-safe' and John could well imagine Mycroft having access to a device that would avoid metal detection.  It was now safely inside his jacket pocket, waiting.

The door opened widely, and a member of the group stood there smiling.  He clapped a hand on John's shoulder as they entered, squeezed just a little as he said, "Ah, yes, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes!  Come on in, we've been expecting you."  John glanced behind him quickly enough to catch the full-on, endearing, slightly lopsided grin on Sherlock's face as they entered the room.

_~ Fin ~_

++ 

Provided the link works, here is the original version example of the song John heard and recorded:

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0DQIGe_9EfA>

The acapella version, of course, would be somewhat different, and in my opinion, one of the group members would likely have had to provide a bit of percussion just to fill the holes and drive the beat a little.

Get Home Lyrics (Bastille)

How am I gonna get myself back home?  
Ay-ay, ay-ay, ay-ay

We are the last people standing  
At the end of the night  
We are the greatest pretenders  
In the cold morning light

This is just another night  
And we’ve had many of them  
To the morning we’re cast out  
But I know I’ll land here again

How am I gonna get myself back home?  
Ay-ay, ay-ay, ay-ay

There’s a light in the bedroom  
But it’s dark  
Scattered around on the floor  
All my thoughts

This is just another night  
And we’ve had many of them  
To the morning we’re cast out  
But I know I’ll land here again

The birds are mocking me  
They call to be heard  
The birds are mocking me  
They curse my return

How am I gonna get myself back home?  
Ay-ay, ay-ay, ay-ay

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the liberties taken with blog anonymity. Please let me know if there are blatant errors or typos and I will fix. I always edit a piece a little after posting it, because no matter how hard I try, I always find something. Chapter titles may change.
> 
> I base a little of John's reflections on my own: I cut my teeth as a youngster listening to my father's barbershop quartet rehearse at our house, and it indelibly marked and influenced my music taste for life. Give me anything with tight harmony and I will find beauty in it. Beach Boys, Wilson Phillips, Abba, PTX, Bastille, Fall Out Boy, Imagine Dragons, an occasional boy band, Chase Holfelter, ... I could go on but you get the picture...
> 
> I was out running when Bastille's "Get Home" came through on my Pandora (oddly enough, on my Meghan Trainor station), and the run was (essentially) over and this story finally took shape. Only my internet browser and I know how many times I have played this song while writing.
> 
> Some of the other songs mentioned, hopefully, are not distracting if you are unfamiliar with them. "Oh Danny Boy" has some great recordings out there [including one by the Muppets that is always good for a laugh]. And Manhattan Transfer's arrangement of "Nightengale" is incredible. I am always up for new music suggestions, so after reading this, if you have any to share particularly with tight harmony or acapella versions, that are similar or wonderful or even something that relates to the fandom/this piece - feel free to leave me a comment!


End file.
